Bitter Harvest
by Dragon's Daughter 1980
Summary: It wasn't so simple, dealing with the consequences. Spoilers for The Seed.
1. Chapter 1: Evan Lorne

**Bitter Harvest**

By Dragon's Daughter 1980

**Disclaimer**: Other than being a fan, I have absolutely _nothing_ to do with Stargate: Atlantis in _any_ way, shape or form.

**Author's Note**: Unfortunately, I've only been able to occasionally watch SGA, so I am not completely sure about canon. I should probably also mention that most of my information comes from reading posted transcripts at Gateworld (and I haven't read all of them…yet.) So please excuse any of my errors (drop me a note via review). Thank you! I would also like to add a special 'Thank You' to my Big Sister, Katie, who helped me figure out a few things and let me ramble to get there.

**Spoiler Warning**: _The Seed_

* * *

He was getting a glass of water from his bathroom, he thinks.

Maybe.

He's not too certain on that point.

It would be more worrisome if he could just remember why he should be worried.

Anyway, the last thing he remembers clearly is his confined world doing a sideways tilt.

That doesn't explain why he wakes up in the infirmary feeling like he's been trampled by something large and heavy. Maybe several of them. Or why there are nurses releasing him from soft restraints in a brisk, practical manner. Or why Beckett sounds so relieved when he says, "You're going to be fine, Major" moments before warmth slithers through—

His stomach does a nauseating flip. Something's wrong. He draws in a breath— and slips away into sleep.

* * *

Evan Lorne wakes up to the cheerful chirping of a heart monitor, happily informing the world in general that he is alive. He would appreciate that fact (_does_ appreciate it, just not fully at the moment) if he wasn't so sore. He smothers a groan because his neck is killing him and the rest of his body feels like he's been on a ten mile run for his life—full out sprint, with a full pack, in rough terrain, being chased by Wraith, Asurans or both.

Someone touches his wrist and he jerks in surprise, which sets off a whole cascade of protesting muscles. He gasps at the flaming aches that run through his body. He didn't think it would be possible to be _this_ sore. He blinks until the world resolves into its proper shapes and sizes.

"Sorry, Major," the nurse apologizes quickly. She's familiar to him. It takes him a disturbingly long moment to match her face to her name: Marie. (Or should he be more disturbed that he knows her that quickly?) She smiles down at him, "How are you feeling?"

"Sore," he croaks. She remedies that by helping him sit up and lean back against a comfortable nest of pillows before she pours a glass of water for him. She cradles his trembling hands with a gentle touch that is just firm enough to make sure the glass doesn't slip and that the water goes nowhere but his mouth. The few sips she allows him are heaven to his parched throat. His next words sound almost normal to his ears, if a little rough, "What happened?"

If it isn't for her small hands steadying his grip, he probably wouldn't have noticed the sudden tension in her petite frame. But he does, and he slides her a Look, which she blithely ignores. Or maybe she doesn't, because her eyes dart to something over his shoulder, and relief flutters over her features.

"Hello Major Lorne," greets an achingly familiar brogue a heartbeat later, "how are you feeling?" Beckett wanders over, saving Marie (who hastily retreats) from having to come up with an explanation, and spends the next few minutes running him through a routine examination, complete with poking and questions. Basically, he's physically healthy and his brain's intact because he knows his name, his birthday, what day of the week it is and who's the current leader of Atlantis. Then comes the kicker question that the other man is trying so hard to casually ask, but even in his possibly drugged and definitely aching state, Evan knows is vitally important to whether or not he'll be getting out of the infirmary any time soon and back to work, "Do you remember what happened?"

The problem is, once the question is asked, he's not entirely sure of his answer.

He remembers feeling tired in his quarters, but deciding against a nap—for some reason (Why would he be in his quarters in the middle of the day? Why would he be so tired? Why wouldn't he nap, if there wasn't anything urgent to attend to (which there always was)? Which meant there was something urgent, so why wasn't he dealing with it? Not to even consider, he couldn't seem to remember _what_ was urgent). There was the weight of a glass in his hand and the running faucet in his bathroom. He clearly remembers thinking how paints would never be able to capture the brilliant diamonds of glittering color as the sunlight hits the water, no matter how skilled the painter.

After that…

After that, things get blurry and very confused— sudden dizziness, maybe a gurney-ride, distorted voices, soft restraints, medical jargon — and none of it, the memories he knows are for real and the ones he's got little question marks next to, explains why he's in the infirmary in the state that he's in. He's physically and mentally fit, which means that either everything he remembers is one massive hallucination (in which case, he's royally screwed for a variety of reasons) or something even more fucked-up happened that screwed him over so much that he can't remember the event at all.

If he was a civilian, he's pretty sure that he'd be in full-blown panic right now. If he was a regular soldier, he'd be wondering if he was going to get medically discharged (among other things). But he's SGC, Atlantis to boot, so the only feeling he has is a sickening coil of tension in his gut, because he's beginning to think that something's gone horribly wrong and that only reason Beckett and Marie aren't telling him is that they're afraid that he's going to lose it. Or something.

So the question hangs there, written invisibly in the air in bright red letters, waiting until he can come up with an answer that doesn't sound completely half-cooked.

Beckett seems a little unsettled by the silence as well, because he gently prompts, "What's the last thing you remember?"

He doesn't know why he starts running through what he recalls aloud, but he does. The other man says nothing, though he sinks tiredly into a chair. Evan wonders if Beckett feels as exhausted as he looks, and makes a mental note to get a nurse over here if the Scottish man turns any grayer with fatigue.

He was painting, he remembers that now, a view of the city from above—filling in a sketch of sorts, working from memory. He was done with his reports and if he had to review the mission briefing for M4X-639 one more time, he might scream. So with the quarantine effectively sealing him in his room (not to mention his broken leg), he had limited options to divide his free time between.

"Quarantine?" he asks himself in a quasi-mumble. The knowledge that floods him the next moment—Keller, the virus, damn Michael, oh God. He forgets to hide his panic as he puts a hand on his stomach, feeling reassuringly smooth skin underneath the thin fabric of his hospital gown. Then someone is pressing the hard plastic of an oxygen mask to his face, quietly urging him to take deep, even breaths, even as the shrill chirping of the heart monitor settles down into a steadier, slower heartbeat.

When the roaring panic eases away, he hears Beckett's soothing litany, "You're okay, Evan. You're okay," accompanied by a solid arm across his shoulders. He concentrates on steadying his breathing, which is still a little ragged. After making sure that he's not going to get any ideas (as if Evan _could_ in his state), Beckett releases his hold on the soldier, though the glare he levels at Evan insures that the oxygen mask isn't going to be ditched… in the next few minutes, at least.

"Sheppard, McKay, Keller?" he asks. _The others?__ My team?_ The other man shakes his head, and for a moment, he feels like his heart has disappeared, before slamming back into his chest. "They're fine. A little knocked about by the treatment, like you are, but they're alive. All of them."

"Even Keller?" he asks, to be doubly sure, because while she's nothing like the man standing in front of him, she's starting to get her feet under her and take charge. She is so innocent and naïve in ways that everyone else isn't, but that doesn't make her any less valuable to the city.

"Even Keller," Beckett confirms tiredly.

He watches, silent, as the doctor runs a critical eye over the array of monitors encircling him. Their eyes meet, and Beckett smiles in a heartbreakingly _familiar_ and reassuring manner before he says, "If you can hold down breakfast, we'll discharge you to your quarters. Strict bed rest for a day, light duty in probably a week, maybe more."

"Thanks, Doc," responds Evan, his voice muffled. The other man squeezes his shoulder gently, "Get some rest Major. Your body needs it."

Instinctively obeying the suggestion (order), he closes his eyes and settles back down to sleep. The gentle warmth that floods his veins tells him that he's been drugged. Normally, he'd edge in a word or two of protest, but he's tired, it's been a bad month, and the nightmares can wait.

He closes his eyes and gets some rest because he's going to need all his energy in the weeks to come. He won't turn down the small bottle of sleeping pills that is pressed into his hand just before he leaves tomorrow. He won't completely relax until he's been discharged from the infirmary and seen for himself that his men are alive and well. He'll have some difficulties walking into his quarters for the next few weeks, but the discomfort will fade until it's barely noticeable.

Evan closes his eyes and wonders how bad the nightmares will be this time (Will they get worse? How many more will he add?) before he is swept away into slumber.


	2. Chapter 2: Jennifer Keller

**Bitter Harvest**

By Dragon's Daughter 1980

**Disclaimer**: Other than being a fan, I have absolutely _nothing_ to do with Stargate: Atlantis in _any_ way, shape or form.

**Spoiler Warning**: _The Seed_

* * *

She's alive.

That much she's sure of.

Because if she was dead, her heart wouldn't be pounding against her ribs, she wouldn't be on the edge of hyperventilating, her head wouldn't hurt, and she wouldn't be choking on tears or a half-voiced scream of terror. Why can't she _see_ anything? Why is there _no light_?

No no no no —

Her frantic scramble to turn on the lights would be amusing if she wasn't so nearly hysterical. Her arm hits several objects, knocking all of them off her bedside table and onto the ground and oh God, her arm's entangled with something, no no no no, _please_ no. She starts crying as she struggles (slithers up her arm) to free herself (tightening its grip) from the grasping object before she wretches herself back to her good, if rapidly failing, senses and realizes it's just the lamp cord. Her tears shift from terrified to relieved to just plain pathetic because she fucking _panicked_ over a lamp cord, a harmless _lamp cord_. That's how messed up she is. The thought only increases her anxiety as her hands flitter through the darkness, blindly searching for something to calm herself with. She flinches at the sound of pills in their bottle when her hand knocks against it, starts with hope and then devastation when her fingers find her hairclip, hoping that the device is waterproof when she feels the slippery water glass on the floor.

It's only because the light controller has a faint (comforting, familiar, _safe_) sapphire glow that she manages to find it in the dark. She waves her hand over it, willing it to turn on (on, on, please turn on, please)—

The lights flash on, blindingly so, and when she can see again, she lets out a half-sigh, half-sob of relief at the sight of her normal room. It was just a dream, a nightmare. Everything in its place, everything normal. Normal. Fine. Nothing wrong. Everything right. So why can't she convince herself of that?

She hears herself gasping for air, even with the cool sea breeze drifting lazily through the open window. The air, refreshing in the summer heat, chills her sweat-soaked clothing, and she shivers as she looks around her, taking it all in again. Her desk, with her research notes and medical journals stacked haphazardly, and her family looking back at her with happy smiles (Oh Dad, what you would say if I ever had to explain this to you?) Her little bookshelf, with small gifts (from Earth and from Pegasus) displayed proudly. Her clothes in her laundry basket that's half in, half not in her closet (she's never wearing red again, or purple). Her couch that still has a spare blanket rumpled on its cushions. Her white lab coat draped over the back of her chair. The small medical bag that she keeps by her doorway (because there's _always_ an emergency and the basics get forgotten in the rush sometimes. Or there's just not _enough_ of the basics to keep someone alive).

Everything is shockingly normal. There's nothing in her room to remind her of what happened here. Nothing except her memories and the flinch she can't hide when she sees her bed and the new scars on her skin (and her mind).

She gingerly rests her head against the bed frame, feeling steel handles of her bedside table digging into her back. She doesn't move from her spot on the floor. The pain is pretty much the only thing that's grounding her at the moment, tells her panicked mind that _this_ is reality. She's alive, awake and _safe_.

Except she feels sick and terrified every time she tries to get some rest in her room. All she has to do is walk in the door and she's one step closer to sheer terror. Laying down on her bed, the same bed that she nearly died in? That's enough to send her heart rate skyrocketing as she struggles to ignore her fight or flight instincts. And she's sure people are starting to notice that she's not as fine as she tries to pretend that she is. Her physical recovery has been remarkably fast, but her psychological mending has been a minefield.

It's been a little over a week since the 'incident,' as she calls it in her mind, and a little less than a week since she last slept. She's dozed off a few times—mostly in the infirmary, after her shift while reviewing her notes, out of pure exhaustion— but she hasn't gone to sleep willingly. She's tried to sleep in her bed (her _almost_ deathbed, and she should take comfort from that 'almost,' but she's finding it hard to) since her discharge from the infirmary, but that's a surefire guarantee that she's going to wake up in a cold sweat, a scream lodged in her throat. The couch is marginally better—she doesn't panic as much, especially since it's a shorter fall to the ground, and her unconscious mind can differentiate between the softness of her mattress and the hardness of her couch while she sleeps. Not that her nightmares are any less frequent or terrifying when she collapses on the couch, she just relaxes more before she passes out from exhaustion and wakes up on the floor in a panicked tangle of blankets. A part of her is still terrified that she's going to go to sleep and never wake up. _Ever._

Because she was stupid enough to accidentally come across isolation room security footage the other day, and not turn away. Instead, she got an outsider's view of what happened to accompany her memories of the inner hell she was trapped in. The few seconds that she watched are seared into her memory now, and she wonders if she'll ever be able to forget.

There's nothing that can explain what it was like, locked in your own body, screaming and fighting, utterly and totally aware of what was going around you and being unable to do anything about it. It was like being buried alive, pounding against a concrete wall that was a tomb and being taunted by unseen voices, gloating over their victory. If she concentrated on her memories, she could recall every single word they hissed in her mind—their plans, what they were doing, the ways they were going to seek out and kill every one of her friends and colleagues. With sickening clarity, she watched as they tortured everyone to death (yes, it was all in her mind, all of it, but it didn't make it any less real) and besieged her with the knowledge that _she_ was responsible, that it was _all_ her fault.

She raged and counterattacked the accusations, but when it was your own body, your own _mind_ turning against you… She tried, tried so hard, but she didn't manage to do a single thing, a single fucking thing that would have made a difference. They almost turned her into a Hive ship against her will, and pretty much swatted her aside when she said, "No." She was effectively a prisoner in her own body, trapped not in a coffin, but smothering to death in a roomful of oxygen. These nights, she relieves those moments, and nothing she's done so far has managed to stop the flashbacks. She hates feeling helpless. She hates knowing that people almost died because of her. She's always torn between anger and exhaustion these days, and she just wants it to _stop_.

She wants to sleep, and not be scared. She wants to be able to know, to _know_ know, that she's safe, that she isn't a danger, that she isn't as weak as she is. She wants to say that she's fine, and completely and truthfully mean it. She wants to get back to work, to get back to what's important. She wants to stop the anger and hurt, the wish that runs through her mind in the midnight hours, that she could get her hands on Michael and kill him for all the pain he's caused, because that's not _her_. That's not who she is. She wants to be a doctor again, and not a victim. She wants to be… She wants to be herself, not scared, not doubting, not hating, not traumatized.

She's a healer. Not a killer. But in the darkness of her nightmares, she finds that it's not as simple as she hopes it is. She's as human as the next person, and she's found that revenge is a hard emotion to shake. A part of her is absolutely convinced that if Michael dies, her nightmare will be over. The rest of her knows that it isn't so simple, and isn't so complicated.

She _knows_ it's over. Her tests came back clean and she's healthy and in control of herself and Atlantis isn't a fucking Hive ship, so it's _over_.

Except in her mind, she's still stuck in that impossible struggle with that—that _thing_—trying to yank back control over her body, trying to stop it from taking over and killing the people she's come to care about. It's _not_ over, not in her mind.

In the silence that is her war to fight alone, Jennifer Keller rests her forehead on her knees and starts to cry, because out of everything she's learned, they didn't cover how to deal with _this_ in med school.


	3. Chapter 3: Steven Caldwell

**Bitter Harvest**

By Dragon's Daughter 1980

**Disclaimer**: Other than being a fan, I have absolutely _nothing_ to do with Stargate: Atlantis in _any_ way, shape or form.

**Author's Note**: I would like to say a special 'thank you' to everyone who has reviewed. I'm thrilled to hear that everyone likes these snippets.

**Spoiler Warning**: _The Seed_

* * *

Steven Caldwell knocks on her door.

He knows it's late but he also knows that she'll be up, regardless of the hour, and thankful for the intrusion. He knows because she's trying to avoid the nightmares and failing, miserably.

He knows because he's seen the reports sent back to the SGC, read between the crisp lines that record in excruciating detail what happened in a clinically cold and detached manner. He's mulled over what has (hasn't) been said, what's included (missing) from the official version of events, ever since he heard what happened. It doesn't take much time for him to put the pieces together—both written and unspoken facts. What does take time is deciding what (not if) he's going to do about it because he has to do something.

He knows the signs, and he sees them all silently screaming in her. It's been less than a day, and he knows without a doubt, she's in trouble. He's seen her in the mess hall, pale as a ghost and nearly like one as well, if the quiet whispers are to be trusted (and they are—gossip might not always be right, but this time it is). She smiles, but it's too bright or too forced or neither so she grimaces more than she grins, and never as much as before, as she used to. She doesn't like it when people startle her; her shyness isn't the quiet of an only child but of a shell-shocked victim. She's floundering, because once you've lost control to some _thing_that wants you dead, been violated so deeply and profoundly—it's hard, damn hard, to find your equilibrium again.

He's not good with words, or with feelings. As his crew can testify, touchy-feely is _not_ something he is comfortable with. But he thinks he should help, because while the people on Atlantis take care of each other, she's slipping through the cracks right before their eyes. They're trying so hard, and it's time for him to pitch in to help. They depend on each other (to breathe, live, _survive_) more often than not to watch (_protect_) each other's backs. If one of them needs help, the others will prod (coax, order, _beg_) the person to seek help (_somehow_). Two years ago, it could be counted on; a year ago, it could be promised. Now, it's all unraveling before him.

He knows that he shouldn't judge a book by its cover, or a man by his words, but Woosley isn't a man of action. The new leader of Atlantis, a Bureaucrat in ways that Elizabeth wasn't and Carter never was, doesn't have the nerve to sit her down and tell her that it's all right to rage and hate, but to do it productively. That man has never experienced possession of the worst kind, never had to experience the guilt of being responsible for people dying on your watch (and even if no one died, the haunting possibility that they could have). The psychiatrist is new and still settling down. She hasn't had the nerve to order her own boss in for an evaluation, and for all her meekness, he's not sure the good doctor wouldn't put up a fight. He's sure that other people have tried to talk with her, it's to be expected, but for some reason, it's not working and he might as well take a shot at this because he's a part of this ragtag, insane, battered, but intact family too.

He knows.

He knows, just as good, maybe even better (unfortunately) than any of them, what it's like, to lose control, to be so aware of _everything_ that's being done—both by you and to you—without actually being able to _do_ anything. He knows what it's like to be trapped and unable to scream for help, to feel despair and terror sinking their unforgiving claws into the soul and how it takes forever to dislodge the hold. He knows what it's like to be used and discarded like a puppet, a tool to be casually tossed away.

He knows what it's like to live and work every day, every moment with the people you could have killed (were planning to kill, even though it wasn't you), and wonder at night if you have their trust (forgiveness) for a situation that wasn't of your own making. It's bad enough that lives are placed in her hands (you're supposed to get them home, alive) without having to deal with the guilt (it's not _your_ fault, but it is) that everyone almost didn't. (It wasn't you that killed everyone, lead them unsuspecting to their gruesome deaths, but it was _you_ just the same. You didn't. You could have.) It didn't matter what title was in front of a name—Colonel, Doctor, Sir, Ma'am— there had to be trust, trust at the deepest levels, blind trust, unbreakable faith. Events like these test those bonds to the limit.

He knows that it's a long hard road back to (what passes for) normalcy, and that it has to be walked alone. It's not that it should be done alone, but friends can only fight _with_, not for, her against the ghosts. They can armor her against the attacks, soothe the nightmares, heal the wounds —they can't take her place on the battleground; they can't tell what is defeat and what is victory. Those judgments fall to her. This battle is a solitary task to achieve, and so much hinges on it.

He knows what he knows, and not much else. He's walked this path before, and hopes he never will again. He doesn't know if she'll be strong enough, even with the support that will smother (brace) her, to fight through this, to see the other end of the tunnel. He hopes that his experiences will be enough to point her vaguely in the right direction. He prays that she will find her balance again, her sanity intact if a little battered. He wants to be optimistic and say that she will. He knows he can't promise that. He knows she's the one who needs to take her life back, and no one else can take her place in doing that. This is a responsibility that is hers alone. All he can do is offer his advice, and hopes she takes it under consideration in her battle. That's what brings him here now.

He knocks on her door and waits in the darkened hallway. It slides open a few moments later. She is tired and frail in the light that halos her petite frame. But there is a defiance and stubbornness in her posture that gives him a spark of hope that maybe she will find her way out this purgatory she's in. She might not give in to the darkness that surrounds her, and that might be enough. Wary and weary eyes met his own dark ones and lips curve in a shaky, polite smile, "Yes, Colonel Caldwell?"

He asks a simple question and prays he knows what to say from there, "Can we talk, Dr. Keller?"


End file.
